


whispers

by julesmpm



Series: the dawn [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Can you believe that episode, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Just a little angst, Post battle of Winterfell, Spoilers for 8x3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesmpm/pseuds/julesmpm
Summary: Before anything, he hears the whispers.Contains spoilers for 8x3.Pretty fluffy with a little angst.





	whispers

**Author's Note:**

> Y'ALL. THAT EPISODE.  
> I've never written for GOT before, but there's something about the Arya/Gendry dynamic that really gets me. I'm still in shock from the whole episode, but I just wanted to write something quickly because man oh MAN the creative juices are flowing,

Before anything, he hears the whispers.

Mentions of her name, followed by looks of wonder, admiration, even confusion from the parties involved. Words of how she had put a spear through the Night King himself, how she had been the reason that the army of the dead fell away in the blink of an eye.

He’s unable to pull from any of the conversations if Arya Stark walked away from the defeat. 

Everyone continues to talk with wonder in their eyes, but he doesn’t care about any of her newfound glory.

All he cares about is her.

And when he finally sees her, sitting alone underneath the Godswood tree, his heart feels as though it simultaneously skips two beats and falls into his stomach.

He watches her shoulders rise and fall as he approaches her, notices the way her arms are wrapped so tightly around her knees as if she was afraid she would fall apart with a loose enough grip. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so small.

He takes another step forward and she turns violently, her hand instinctively twitching towards her sword. It takes her a single moment to recognize him, and he watches as she completely and utterly melts.

He closes the distance between them, kneels in front of her and pulls her into his chest. She smells of blood, of death, and he can feel her erratic breathing against his shoulder. Without hesitation, he maneuvers her so that he is cradling her in his lap, holding her as close to him as possible so that she might be able to feel him and pull herself back down to earth.

He surveys her body, immediately notices the dark bruising that wraps around her neck like a ribbon in a young girl’s braid. He resists the temptation to linger on it, to trace it with a gentle finger and try and gauge the pain that she’s in.

Her breathing is beginning to slow, to regulate, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, leaning back onto the trunk of the tree. A second wave of relief crashes over him and nearly pulls him under, his vision blurring with tears that he knows he won’t let fall.

She really did it. She really survived it.

She’s here, in his arms, alive.

Newfound Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.

His Arya.

She looks up at him and he looks back at her, let’s her raised hand cup his cheek. It’s her turn to take him in, now that her moment of panic has passed. She pulls away, sways slightly before he steadies her with his hands on her shoulders. There’s no doubt she’s concussed, judging by the gash and surrounding bruises amidst the blood, sweat and dirt on her face. Her eyes flit about his whole body, and she continually reaches out to touch him, on his arm and knee and ear and hip and just about everywhere else.

He understands. She wants to make sure that he’s really really there.

After a battle that had seemed hopeless, that had literally turned their own dead against them, that had brought about the worst damage to Winterfell ever seen, nothing really feels tangible anymore.

Her hand comes to rest on his collarbone and her eyes move to meet his, and he has to hold back the urge to pull her into a fierce kiss.

He shouldn’t be surprised when, like just hours before, she’s the one that initiates the action.

The kiss is hungry and hot and bloody and beautiful and fleeting, as she pulls away after only a moment. She remains close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath on his nose, and he allows himself to reach forward and ever-so-gently trace the beginning of her bruises with his thumb. She shivers at his touch, which makes him pause, but she doesn’t pull away. The hand that lay on his collarbone moves to sit atop the one on her neck, acting as a method of silent encouragement.

“I killed the Night King.” Her voice is hoarse, nearly croaking, but he can understand her as clear as daybreak. He nods, allowing the smallest smile to play at the corner of his lips.

“I heard.” His free hand reaches to brush her hair out of her face so that he’s really able to look at her, completely uninhibited. Her lips curve into a smile that he’s sure mirrors his own, and she moves back to leaning against him, head nestled under his chin.

She fits so perfectly into his arms.

How has he never noticed that before?

The thought is immediately followed by that of being thankful that he’s discovered this while she’s alive in his embrace, instead of the cold, dead Arya that he was dreading finding.

She is here, and she is alive, and she killed the bloody Night King.

And now, as she leans against him, struggling to keep her eyes open as the night’s exhaustion begins to claim her, he counts his lucky stars that she’s in his arms.


End file.
